


Sherlock’s Yuletide

by arrowinthesky (restfulsky5), blancanieve



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Buying gifts, Christmas Party, Christmas Shopping, Gen, John Watson is a Saint, Reluctant sherlock, menu planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restfulsky5/pseuds/arrowinthesky, https://archiveofourown.org/users/blancanieve/pseuds/blancanieve
Summary: John Watson and a reluctant Sherlock Holmes decide to host a Yuletide party. Invitations, menu planning, shopping for gifts, food buying, decorating the flat, all have to be done. Will Sherlock’s reluctance and inexperience ruin the planned festivities?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper & Mrs. Hudson & Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Arrowinthesky and I hope our readers enjoy this story. It was such a fun collaboration, brain storming ideas, texting back and forth with draft bits and pieces, putting it together, and finally editing it. 
> 
> Since we are both fans of the BBC Sherlock episodes, we thought writing a Christmas story was a terrific idea. Why? Because, as my friend said, these characters captivated us.
> 
> Although we have very different writing styles, we blended these styles with very little effort. We are very pleased at how this story came together, and hope our readers feel the same way.
> 
> And so to all our readers...Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays. Enjoy!  
> blancanieve

**Sherlock’s Yuletide**

  
**Part One**

  
John Watson stood at the frosted front window of the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes and peered down at the street below. He was savoring his morning cup of tea and thinking.

It was bitterly cold, the coldest winter Britain had seen in many years. There was no foot traffic to be seen, only a few cars driving very slowly on the icy street.

He could hear Sherlock in his room getting dressed. He would soon come in to the room demanding his morning tea. John always made the tea. He had, in the course of his tenure as Sherlock’s flatmate, tried to teach him to make a decent cup of tea. It hadn’t work…Sherlock’s tea tasted like bilge water. He moved away from the window into the kitchen and got the tea ready for Sherlock; strong, two sugars, a tiny drop of milk.

He handed over the tea as Sherlock walked in. “Sherlock, I’ve been thinking.”

“Really, John? So early in the morning.”

John didn’t rise to the bait. “I think we should have a Christmas Eve party, here at the flat. With food, drink and a gift exchange.”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John added, “It will be a small celebration. Nothing that will stretch your sensibilities too much.”

“Alright, if you like.”

John glanced around the room, envisioning a quiet yet celebratory gathering—if Sherlock agreed. They’d spent the past few weeks running after a serial killer, their steps reaching the outskirts of England, then on to Ireland. Germany. Poland. Back to Germany. Bulgaria. It was enough to make his head spin.

He was surprised Sherlock hadn’t locked himself away, nursing madness as a result.

“You can choose the food for the menu, if you’d like,” John decided, although it was a risk and a big one at that to give Sherlock that task. They could end up eating only biscuits, or an entree they’d never heard of before. “Would that help?”

“I believe I said yes.”

He couldn’t imagine what Sherlock would choose for an appetizer, but at least the party would be interesting. “For gifts, a trip to...”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted. “I am amenable to the idea.”

John’s eyes snapped back to Sherlock. “You…you agree?”

Sherlock nodded.

Wasn’t that peculiar. John looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Why what, John?” Sherlock stared back.

“Why are you being so agreeable to the idea of a Christmas gathering?”

“Because you want it, John.”

“What?” John blinked. “Um…since when do you take what I want into consideration? Sherlock, are you feeling alright? You’re not dying are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Of course I’m not dying, and I take your wants into consideration... when they coincide with my own.”

“Oh,” John said, relieved. This sounded much more like Sherlock.

“I decided that since you accompanied me without complaints to England, Ireland. Germany, Poland. Then to Germany again, to Bulgaria and back here, accommodating your desire for a gathering is the least I can do.”

“Why thank you, Sherlock,” John said dryly. “Very kind, I’m sure.”

“You’re quite welcome, John. Now perhaps you should elaborate on your plans. I have decided that I will be amenable to whatever you want unless it’s too outlandish. Who are we to invite? And, if I may ask, what brought this idea into your head?”

“I thought we’d ask Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and Mycroft. Mrs Hudson is always good to us, Sherlock, Molly goes out of her way to help us in our cases, Lestrade is always on hand if we need him, as is Mycroft. I thought it was about time we reciprocate their efforts. We’ll need to plan the food and beverages, and then we shall go out to buy a few small gifts to exchange with them.”

Sherlock looked askance. “Gifts? We’re exchanging gifts?”

“Of course we are, Sherlock! It’s the customary thing to do with your close friends and family. We can’t leave anyone out.”

Sherlock sighed. “Very well, John, if you say so. I don’t quite understand your insistence of remembering everyone with a gift, but we will not forget anyone, I assure you.”

“I do say so.”

“What about your sister, Harry. If we’re inviting Mycroft, shouldn’t you invite Harry?”

“I have absolutely no plans to ask Harry to our gathering. She despises Christmas festivities, says it depresses her. Our party is the antithesis of Harry’s Christmas plans which will be to see a horror film and eat fish and chips for Christmas dinner.

Sherlock shuddered. “I agree then, it would be best not to invite Harry.”

“Shall we sit down to plan our menu?”

Sherlock looked down at his now cold cup of tea. “If you want, John, and if you will make me a fresh cup of tea, this has gone quite cold.” He shuddered dramatically, his tone of voice, which John studiously ignored, was long suffering and put upon.

“Was the tea not to your liking?” John dared to ask.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I dare say some day I shall teach you how to make my tea properly once and for all, John.”

“Your tea is atrocious.”

“And yet you want me to plan the menu.” Sherlock handed him the cup.

He did not take it. 

Sherlock lifted a brow. “Perhaps it would be best to forgo a gift exchange, as I foresee that no one will know what I’d like, except perhaps for you, thereby leaving me no choice but to return all of mine.”

John snorted. “I think we’ll take our chances.”

Sherlock hummed a response and sat down, his legs crossed and expression waiting, John took that as a good sign.

This was going to work, it would even soften the impression their friends and coworkers had of Sherlock. God knew how trying he could be.

Sherlock set the cup down with a sigh and folded his hands. “Shall we begin?”

“Oh. Right.” John took his seat, then shifted his body so that he could grab the stack of magazines he’d set aside just for this purpose without wrenching his back.

He handed one to Sherlock. “For inspiration.”

Sherlock leafed through the pages. “I don’t need pictures to help me. This is a simple party, is it not? With friends?”

John shrugged. “Humor me.”

“This is a waste of ti—oh.” Sherlock stopped and frowned.

“What is it?”

Sherlock turned the magazine around, one finger pointing at the top right page corner where a chocolate frosted, three-layered strawberry cake was the centerpiece of a brightly decorated table.

John narrowed his eyes on the title. “Mary’s Christmas Cake?” he read.

“The name suits you.”

“For?”

“Love.”

“I don’t know any Marys.” John paused. “Good heavens, Sherlock. We’re planning a party, not a wedding.”

“You will,” Sherlock muttered, already turning the next page.

“Something with salmon,” John prodded, to change the subject. “And dill sauce? Roasted parsnips? Pigs in a blanket?”

“I thought prawn cocktail cups, cranberry relish, a fruit tray, Scottish smoked salmon, since I know you love it, caramelized shallot mash, roast potatoes, a selection of cheese and crackers, and, my favorite, a trifle, would do fine.”

“Yes, yes,” John said, impressed. “Champagne?”

“A punch will suffice.”

“Mistletoe? Molly’s coming, isn’t she?”

“The shallots are for Molly.”

John’s mouth quirked at the corners. “Are they now?”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, but don’t read into it. The cheese and crackers will satisfy Mycroft’s simpler tastes. The relish is for Mrs. Hudson, as long as it’s extra sweet. And I thought Lestrade would appreciate the roast potatoes, as they’ll remind him of his grandmother.”

John leaned back, magazine forgotten on his lap. “This was easier than I thought it would be.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Sherlock hesitated.

“What?”

“Since this was less painful than you’d anticipated, and I abhor gift-buying—”

John stood up, jaw firm. “No. You’re coming. No excuses. That’s final. Final, Sherlock,” he said pointing a finger at him. “I’m not planning this without you. Don’t think for a minute that I’m shopping on my own. I’d rather—I’d rather shut myself away for all of Christmas. For every Christmas for the next decade. We’re friends, and this is what friends do.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “I owe you a thousand apologies, John. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

“Well, this is important. I overheard Molly—and then Lestrade—their family will be away for most of the holiday.”

“Put on a warm coat, John,” Sherlock said suddenly, tone brusque. “It’s bitterly cold out this morning. If we have to shop, we need to do it right away. Our schedule is too full for this nonsense next week.”

“This is all I have, Sherlock,” John told him, struggling into his nondescript jacket and old military gloves and scarf.

Sherlock looked disapprovingly at the jacket, but said nothing more. He put on his long wool coat, buttoning it to the top, his scarf and gloves to follow.

John jerked his head towards the door. “Come on,” he said, giving in to a smile. “I’m certain it’ll be a snap.” When Sherlock grumbled a firm “I doubt it” under his breath, he added, “Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself for once.”

They called goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, leaving before she could protest their departure from the warmth of their flat into the wintry world outside.

  
John led the way with a fresh spring in his steps, even as the snow billowed in his face when he opened the front door.  
— **tbc** —  



	2. Chapter 2

**Sherlock’s Yuletide**

**  
Part II**

  
They couldn’t get into the taxi fast enough. The snowfall had picked up until they could barely see across the road, the air much colder than John expected. He wondered if this idea had been foolhardy after all.

“Harrods,” Sherlock ordered the driver.

John shivered.

Sherlock sent him a look. “We’ll have everything delivered, John. Mrs. Hudson told me she was not going out today. If we don’t find what we want at Harrods, we’ll go to Liberty’s to finish off.”

John couldn’t speak even if he wanted to argue. He nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, rubbing it futilely.  
The taxi dropped them off at Harrods just as the cab had gotten warm. Sherlock took his elbow, escorting him into the huge store. The beauty of a Christmas decorated Harrods could not be overstated, its glory truly shined.

John smiled to himself. He seldom shopped at Harrods. Truth be told, he couldn’t afford it. He was more a Marks & Spencer man, but he had to admit M & S paled in comparison to the magnificence that was Harrods. Its claim that it was the largest department store in Europe had never been contested.

His body slowly warming, John trailed after Sherlock, knowing full well that his friend had a PLAN. When they were on a case or a mission, Sherlock always had a PLAN and in John’s considered opinion, it was best not to argue with him when he was following his Plan. They walked from department to department, as Sherlock chose gifts for Mycroft, for Mrs. Hudson, for Molly, and for Lestrade. It went like clockwork, as if Sherlock had known he’d suggest the idea all along.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks after the last place. “John, would you mind going back to the sweets section to buy chocolates for my homeless network?”

John stared at him. Sherlock was really getting into the holiday spirit, wasn’t he? Maybe he should be alarmed. He peered at Sherlock’s forehead. It was red. Or, at least a little pink, like his cheeks. Was he just flushed? “Are you sure you feel all right? Sherlock, this isn’t at all like you.”

“I know it isn’t.” Sherlock smirked. “Everyone will be shocked, amazed, flummoxed and will not know how to respond to this new side of me. It’s best to always keep them guessing. Now go on, John, and pick some nice boxes of chocolates for the boys, if you please. If you do it, it’ll make less of a fuss.”

“True. We can’t have that. Wait here. I won’t be long.” John left, shaking his head at Sherlock’s generosity on the one hand, and pettiness on the other.

Sherlock watched his retreating figure for a moment, then took himself to the men’s department. There he chose a smart, navy blue, long woolen coat, a matching cashmere scarf, and leather gloves for John who’d come to live in his flat dead broke.

“Please wrap them and have them delivered to 221B Baker Street. As a matter of fact,” he said, handing the clerk his Harrods’ shopping bags, “I’ll just leave all of these with you.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Please have them wrapped and delivered this afternoon. Just email me with the description of your wrapping paper choices and what is in each box.”

The sales clerk didn’t bat an eye. He’d been there before with similar orders. “We’ll be happy to do it for you.”

Sherlock, now satisfied that everything was taken care of, went to the sweets department and found John trying to choose between several boxes of chocolate. John held them up, but struggled to show him the third, which wobbled and fell to the ground with a clatter.

Sherlock picked it up, then took the others from John, adding two more boxes to his pile. “Get them all, John. Stop fussing.” He made an expansive gesture to the clerk and she nodded. “Have all of them delivered to 221B Baker Street.” He handed over his credit card. “Please wrap them nicely and indicate what kind of candy is in each box.”

John looked at him, his mouth open as if to speak.

Sherlock closed it with one finger. “Don’t argue,” he said. “It will be a waste time. I’ve made up my mind, and I won’t do this again if we’re stuck here.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you.”

The clerk returned his card. “Is this your last stop for the day? They’re calling for several more inches.”

“It is,” Sherlock said. “Come on, John, it’s time for lunch. I fancy we can eat here to save time.”

“Good idea. Remember I have to shop too, Sherlock, but not…not here.” He lowered his voice as they walked out, as if he’d just noticed more people had come to shop. “I can’t afford to buy anything here, or at Liberty’s, either. We’ll go to Marks and Spencer’s and to a good bookstore. And to a place that has a good selection of spirits,” he said, sending Sherlock a stern lock. “And no arguments from you, Sherlock. If you don’t want to accompany me, I’ll shop myself,” he added.

“Nonsense, John. Of course I’ll go with you. It was my idea to do our Christmas shopping today.”

They settled in at Harrods’ food court where both of them dined on pork pies, chips, and tea. Happily replete with good food, they left the store, hailed another taxi, and took themselves to Westminster and M&S for John’s shopping where, Sherlock quietly surmised, he spent his complete budget,

John’s shoulders dropped in relief. “It was a good idea, you know.”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“To get our shopping all done in one day.”

“I do have my moments.”

They stepped out of Marks & Spencer to a London covered with white powdery snow, more falling fast, and not a taxi in sight.

“Blimey, it’s beastly weather,” John muttered, sticking his hand out.

Sherlock took a deep breath, eyes searching for a moment, until they settled on the phone now in his hand. He pulled them both back into the store, then typed a quick message to his brother. “I’ll text Mycroft.”

“A taxi will do.”

“Not in this,” Sherlock clipped. He hit send. “There.”

A minute passed. John leaned forward on the balls of his feet, dancing in place to keep warm. “Maybe he’s at a party?”

“Unlikely.” He paused. “Too early.”

“Government mission?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s on holiday.”

“What? He never goes on holiday.”

“Never is a tad harsh.”

“How could he?” John smiled. “He’s always watching out for you.”

Sherlock frowned. He knew Mycroft worried about him and watched out for him, but he refused to acknowledge it.  
“Apparently he felt the need for one, and this is a quiet time at the Ministry.”

“Ah….” John shivered.

Even in the entryway of M & S it was very cold. John wrapped his scarf more closely around himself, tighter than what was usual, Sherlock observed, and stuck his gloved hands in his pockets.

“You were right,” John said.

“To which point are you referring?” Sherlock asked. “I’ve made at least six so far.”

“The coat. I should have enough money from my next army pension check to buy a heavier one, at a a thrift shop, or a car boot or ju—”

“—jumble sale?” Sherlock said along with him.

John nodded, his jaw clenched to keep it from chattering.

“Well,” Sherlock began, “I’m sure there will be at least one your size, if not more. Here’s my dear brother’s limousine, John. Come on.” He grabbed John’s elbow and guided him out the door to the snowy sidewalk. The back door of the limo opened, and Sherlock pushed John in, then jumped in himself.

Mycroft was reclining against the plush leather upholstery, totally at ease dressed in a heavy black wool coat, black gloves, and a Russian style hat. His always present assistant, Anthea, wrapped in a plush fur coat, was in the corner of the car seat. As usual, she was typing on her phone.

“I hope that’s faux,” John whispered to Sherlock as they took their seats.

Sherlock gave Anthea and her coat a cursory glance. “I imagine it is,” he whispered back, noting John’s relief. “She donates anonymously to animal shelters every Christmas.”

“Anonymously?” John echoed.

Sherlock shrugged. He wouldn’t apologize for knowing everyone’s business when it came so easily to him.

“Mycroft,” John said cordially in greeting, snuggling into the warm seat with a heartfelt sigh.

“John.” Mycroft inclined his head courteously.

“Thank you for coming to get us, Mycroft. It’s beastly cold!”

“Not at all, John. Happy to do it.” He handed John a wool car blanket. John took it with a grateful smile and draped it over himself, and under its length, gave Sherlock a gentle kick.

Sherlock glared at him. “Yes, Mycroft, Thank you for the ride.”

“What, if I may ask, brought you out in this beastly weather?” Mycroft pressed the car intercom. “Bates, 221B Baker Street.”

“Yes, guv.”

“We had some shopping to do, Mycroft, if you must know.”

“I must, Sherlock, since you interrupted Anthea and I having our tea in front of a warm fire so we could come for you.”

“We were shopping for the gift exchange for our Christmas party.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You and John are having a Christmas party?”

“Our first annual,” John answered, a full smile sliding into place despite Sherlock’s subsequent long sigh. “You’re invited, of course, Mycroft.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said petulantly, which earned him another not so gentle kick. “I mean…of course you’re invited, Mycroft, Anthea too, if she’d like to come.”

“No,” Anthea said decidedly, not lifting her eyes from the phone. “I’m going to Italy where it’s warm.”

“Excellent choice,” John told her. “ Would you like some company?”

“No.”

John sighed, gaze wandering out the window, although he could see nothing. “I’ll never be warm again.”

Sherlock tapped the face of his watch with a single finger. “Winter in London is long, miserable and—”

“—horribly long,” John added.

“When is this Christmas gathering?” Mycroft asked. “So I can put it in my diary?” He pulled out a gold pen, opened his leather bound diary, and looked expectantly at Sherlock.

“8 pm on Christmas Eve.”

Mycroft wrote the time. “You say there will be a gift exchange? Who will be present at these revels?”

“Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, you, and, of course, John and I.”

Mycroft scrawled down the names. “I will be pleased to attend, and I will come prepared with appropriate gifts for the exchange.”

John beamed at him. “Excellent, Mycroft. There will be, I promise, some excellent food choices and good company, and I plan to decorate the living room so it will look festive.”

“Decorate?” Sherlock asked. “You hadn’t mentioned that, John.”

“I took it for granted. It’s rather a given, Sherlock.”

“It’s rather a nuisance,” Sherlock muttered.

“You can’t have a festive Christmas party without Christmas decorations of some sort.”

“That’s very true, John,” Mycroft agreed.

Sherlock bit his tongue. It would do no good to antagonize either of them, although he could raise at least a dozen refuting arguments.

Anthea raised her head from the phone. “I’ll send you some gold Christmas balls and greenery before I leave, Dr. Watson.”

“That’s very kind of you, Anthea,” John said.

“Not at all. I have no use for them since I won’t be here.” She went back to her typing.

John looked at Sherlock. “Hmmm. That reminds me of someone I know.”

Sherlock lifted his chin, his eyes fixed elsewhere. “I have no idea what you mean.”

John grinned.

The limousine drew up to 221B. “Ah, here we are,” Mycroft said. The address could barely be seen with the swirling snow blowing, the wind now battering the door.

John made no move to leave.

“Here we are,” Sherlock commented needlessly. “I suppose we shouldn’t wait any longer, John.”

John sighed and handed the wool blanket back to Mycroft with obvious reluctance. “Thanks again, Mycroft. See you on Christmas Eve. Goodbye, Anthea. Have a great holiday,” he told her with his usual courtesy.

She waved a negligible hand at him. “Goodbye, Dr. Watson.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

Sherlock opened the car door, John followed him out, and the limousine drew away. Sherlock unlocked the front door, John entering first, steps quick.

John practically threw off his coat before shaking it out. Snow scattered everywhere, Sherlock stepping back just in time to avoid most of it.

“Although I’m grateful for the shopping trip—and your brother—I never thought we’d get back,” John mumbled. “I’m taking a hot bath, then making tea.”

“Oh, there you are,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, hustling in with a warm smile that drew them both to her.

Sherlock thought he’d even try John’s tea again, if it was piping hot. Perhaps the scalding of his tongue would tame the sweetness of the tea.

“You’re both needed at the station,” she said. “Oh, and I heard some of the roads have been closed. You’ll have to take a detour.”

John froze. A chill swept down Sherlock’s back, creeping deep into his bones. The spell was broken.

“We’re both needed at the station,” John echoed. “I’m not sure…” His voice faded into nothing. He stared down at his wilted coat.

It was pitiful looking, Sherlock had to agree. And he couldn’t have that on his conscience. He wanted to sleep at night, not stay awake considering hideous decorations for his flat.

“You stay here. I’ll say you’re under the weather.” Sherlock spun on his heel and strode for the door and barricade against the storm. He lifted a hand to shield his face. This next case better be worth the trouble. “Blimey, it’s beastly cold!”  
-tbc- 


	3. Chapter 3

**Sherlock’s Yuletide**

**Chapter 3**

  
“Oh, I thought this day would never come,” squealed Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock, hosting his very own Christmas party!”

John looked at the dish in her hands and the bag hanging from her elbow that held something that looked like a cookie tin.

“Mrs. Hudson, I thought I’d mentioned we were providing the food.”

“Pish-posh.” She brushed past him, wearing a brightly colored blouse and skirt that shimmered as she walked. “There could never be enough food at a gathering when Sherlock is around. Last year, he went through two dozen cookies on his own in one afternoon.”

Sherlock popped his head around the corner. “It was an experiment.”

She fluttered her lashes. “So you say.”

“I do,” Sherlock said, nodding solemnly. “Your peppermint thins were as bitter as the year before.”

She didn’t flinched. “And the taffy you snitched?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Better than I’d remembered.”

She smiled. “That is a compliment, coming from you.” She held out her food to him. “Now, be a dear, Sherlock. Set these out, but not before trying the chocolate-covered pretzels.” She leaned forwards, whispering. “The chocolate is a new recipe.”

He sighed, but his eyes sharpened on the bag she held. “Is that right? I was just about to instruct Lestrade how to make the punch.” He straightened and walked towards her. “But instead I shall help you, my dear Mrs. Hudson.”

Lestrade (who knew his way around a punch bowl and needed no instructions from Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson) helped with the last minute details. Sherlock looked around. Everything looked quite festive, he decided.

John, in the throes of a decorating frenzy, had gone out a few days before and bought a large tree, boxes of baubles to put on it, a wreath for the door, and a small mistletoe bough. Anthea’s gold balls and greenery now had pride of place as a centerpiece for the table. The big fir tree shone softly with the colored bubble lights John had found somewhere, and the gold and red glass balls shimmered in reflected beauty.

Mrs. Hudson had loaned them a festive red table cloth for their dining table. Sherlock had carefully placed the large platters of savories and desserts according to a chart he had created to maximize traffic flow.

“No one likes to stand around waiting for the person in front of them to move so they can get to their food choice. It makes them cross, John,” Sherlock fretted, working on his flow chart.

“There are only going to be six people, including us, Sherlock, not a pillaging horde,” John had told him mildly.

Lestrade came up to Sherlock with a glass of punch, breaking his thoughts. “Taste it, Sherlock, see what you think and tell me if I should add more spirits.”

Sherlock took a cautious sip and looked up in surprise. “It’s very good, Lestrade, and no further addition of spirits is needed. You did quite a good job with it.”

“My mum’s recipe,” Lestrade said, proudly. “We had it every Christmas and New Year.”

John came up to them. “I think everything is ready, Sherlock. I’m just going to put everyone’s gifts under the tree. Mycroft and Molly should be arriving soon. It was kind of Mycroft to offer to bring her. Taxis are difficult to hire in this weather.”

“Yes, Mycroft quite likes Molly. Her work with cadavers appeals to him for some odd reason.”

“It’s because he’s related to you,” muttered John.  
~  
The outer doorbell rang, and Mrs Hudson ran to answer it.

“I believe that’s Mycroft and Molly,” John announced. “Our revels can now begin.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock turned and made for his favorite chair.

“Is that headache of yours gone?” John asked, following after him.

“Headache? I don’t have a headache.”

John scratched the tip of his nose. “You just took medication for it, while you were in the kitchen.”

So he’d been seen. “Don’t worry, John.”

“You’re not sick, are you? You’ve been working yourself to the bone.”

Mrs. Hudson returned with their next guests, saving him from replying.

Molly didn’t hesitate to embrace John. “Thank you for inviting me. It’s been dreadfully lonely without my family.”

“They went on a cruise, did they?”

She nodded, wincing. “They invited me, but I couldn’t think of leaving my work behind when you and Sherlock have been so busy.”

“I thank you, Molly,” John said. “You’re a wonder.”

She looked at Sherlock, smile tight before shifting her gaze back to John. “I-I’m not. It’s selfish, really. I hate being backed up after holiday.”

John clasped her shoulder, squeezing it gently. “The cadavers certainly would not mind—they would stay where they are and wait for you, I guarantee it—but I understand.”

She laughed, her smile lighting up the rest of the room. “Oh, John. You’re just what I needed tonight.”

Sherlock changed his mind about sitting and enjoying a mix of appetizers and stood by his bookshelf hands clasped behind his back. He’d not seen Molly in a week. There was something different about her. To his chagrin, he could not determine what it was. The guests milling about, he observed them all rather than finish his plate of food, taking interest in their laughter and the way they included each other in the conversation. It was all rather…charming.

Mycroft came beside him, brow lifted. “You’re not having second thoughts are you? It would be terribly disappointing.”

“About the party?” Sherlock shook his head. “No. I am glad for John’s sake that they came.” He had no doubt they would not be as happy if he was their only host.

Mycroft rumbled in agreement. “You are a true friend, even if you do not see it for yourself, Sherlock.”

“You mean John.”

“No, I mean you,” Mycroft said and drew away to speak with Lestrade.

John came up with Molly in tow. “Sherlock, isn’t it astounding? Molly forwent going on a cruise with her family so she could be available to help with our cases.”

“Yes, I heard. That’s quite generous of you,” Sherlock told her, still trying to figure out what was different about her appearance.

Molly flushed and bit her lip.

And with that Sherlock got it. “You’re wearing lipstick, Molly! But you never wear lipstick!”

Molly’s cheeks flushed even redder. John reached for her hand and drew it under his arm. “Yes, she is, in honor of our party, and she’s never looked prettier.”

“But—”

John shook his head at him. “Come with me, Molly, Mrs. Hudson is beckoning. She obviously wants to speak with you.” He pulled her gently along.

Sherlock was now alone, but it didn’t matter. With a contented sigh, he sank into his chair and took a bite from one of Mrs. Hudson’s cookies.

At last. He could eat in peace.  
  
John found a quiet corner and peered at Molly in concern. “Are you alright? He can be.…” He wasn’t sure where to start.

“No, no,” she assured him. “He’s fine. But thank you, John. I don’t know why I get so flustered around him.”

John smiled. “Not to worry, Molly. Sherlock has even been known to fluster the head of MI6 occasionally.”

“He never seems to fluster you, John. I envy you that.”

He leaned in to whisper. “You want to know my secret?”

She nodded, wide eyes fixated on his face.

“I only listen to a third of what he says,” he smiled brilliantly.

Molly laughed. “I’ll have to remember that. Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Lovely party isn’t it?”

“Molly dear, you look lovely. Doesn’t she, John? Doesn’t she look simply divine?

“She does indeed, Mrs. Hudson, as do you,” John added gallantly.

“Thank you, dear.” She looked around. “I can’t believe you got Sherlock to agree to a party. It’s the first time since he came to live here that he’s entertained. It’s your civilizing influence, John dear.”

“I try, Mrs. Hudson, I try. I’m happy you think it’s working.”

“Keep at it. Soon, we’ll have parties for every occasion.”

John grimaced. “I don’t think my pocketbook could keep up.”

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Mrs. Hudson whispered, “but Sherlock likes to make those paper ornaments for the orphan children.”

“Ornaments? Our Sherlock?” John questioned doubtfully. Chocolate was one thing. Snipping paper another.

“I’m sure of it. I find the scraps in the wastebasket, all in red and green, and sometimes yellow. And then he has me mail the package. An envelope for a large letter.” She indicated the size with her hands spread apart. “It’s always very light.”

“He’s done this before?”

“Of course.”

Molly’s expression softened. “That’s sweet of him.”

“I was thinking shocking,” John said dryly.

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t tell him I told you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” John said, crossing his heart. He almost couldn’t believe it, but Sherlock did have a knack for the paper-folding intricacies of origami. Sherlock had often said it helped him think. Like being alone helped him sleep.

John shook his head at Sherlock, who was in his chair, plate loose in his hand, eyes closed.

“I better awaken our Sleeping Beauty,” John murmured to the women. “Excuse me.”  
  
Sherlock was almost asleep when he was rudely awakened by a foot nudging his leg.

“It’s not over yet,” John said. “We have wonderful gifts to give, more delightful memories to share, more stalwart resolutions to make.”

Sherlock stirred, one eye cracked open. “You sound like a Christmas card.”

“And you look a little rough around the edges,” John said. “It’s on your face. The working. The challenges. The hours that stretched from morning to night—and beyond. Even a sociopath has to slow down at some point. You need a few days off, Sherlock.”

He couldn’t afford it. No, he amended, they couldn’t, couldn’t afford to be without his expertise. “Gifts.”

“Right.” John went to the tree and chose two presents. He held one out to Sherlock. “You first.”

Sherlock sat up in his chair and looked around, but no one was nearby. “Now?”

John shrugged. “They’ll come soon. They always do. You’re center stage.”

Sure enough, their guests found their seats, watching Sherlock expectantly.

This first gift was from Mycroft, a small flat box wrapped in gold and a red ribbon. Bemused Sherlock opened it. There were two plane tickets to Nassau, Bahamas and a voucher for a 4 day stay at the Hilton Hotel. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, shock on his face.

“It’s time for a small vacation, Sherlock. Orders from your doctor. You’re looking quite peaky, pale and washed out, too thin. Sun, the sea, and rest was the prescription. John will accompany you to make sure you rest.”

Sherlock stared at his brother, speechless.

“How lovely, Sherlock, just what you need,” Mrs. Hudson twittered.

John handed him the second gift. “Open it, Sherlock.”

With slightly shaking fingers, Sherlock opened the second gift. “It says it’s from you, John.”

“It is.”

In the box was a pair of sunglasses, dark blue swimming trunks, and a rolled up Panama hat.

“Part 2 of your gift, Sherlock. Hope you like everything. If not you can exchange them.”

Sherlock clutched the box tightly to his chest. “Certainly not! Everything is to my liking! Thank you, Mycroft, thank you, John.”

John passed Mrs.Hudson their gift. “Ooh, for me? Thank you, Sherlock, John.” She opened it to find two tickets for the current run of “Wicked” at The Apollo.

“Oh my! I’ve been wanting to see it for ever so long.” She gave each of them a hug. “You are too good to me, but thank you so much!”

And so it went. John distributed the gifts and everyone opened them with enthusiasm. Be they big or small, there were vocal and loud thanks and appreciative noises.

To Sherlock’s eye, John seemed quite overwhelmed with his gift from Sherlock. At Molly’s urging, John tried on the coat, scarf and gloves. They all fit perfectly and Mrs. Hudson declared he looked quite dashing and handsome.

“Sherlock, I don’t know what to say…this is too much!”

“Nonsense, John. I can’t have you catching pneumonia while we’re out in a case. Really, it’s quite selfish of me to want to keep you healthy.”

After all the gifts had been distributed and they had a general clean up, it was time for dessert and a toast, for which Sherlock was primed and ready.

But first—  
Sherlock held John’s gaze before he could get out of his seat. “Next year, we’ll start earlier. At four, perhaps? Late afternoon? That isn’t too early, is it?”

“Too early? Next year?” John broke into a smile. “Are you saying the deplorable decorations—”

Sherlock shifted in his seat. “I never said they were deplorable.”

“—the extra shopping, people encroaching on your private world, is worth the trouble?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. He observed the people he’d thought he’d known, but didn’t until John had befriended them all. He watched the food disappear into eager hands. Heard the voices clamor all about him. Smelled the spices simmering in a pot on the stove at Mrs. Hudson’s insistence. Most of all, he saw hearts sharing friendships, so rare, he realized, they must be the luckiest people in the world.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said.

He was already anticipating the new memories they’d make tonight and in the months ahead. No matter what occurred—if John found a Mary, and Mycroft grew tired of Sherlock’s detective work, and Molly continued to wear that odd shade on her lips, and Lestrade still doubted him at times—they would have each other.

It was good to have a full and happy flat, if only for one day a year. He could manage that. Nothing more. Nothing less.

John’s expression grew serious. “You truly mean that, don’t you?”

Sherlock sighed. “No need to doubt me. Next year, Yuletide will come to 221B Baker Street once again—and every year thereafter. It was a fine idea, if I do say so myself.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not taking credit for this now, are you?”

Sherlock got to his feet. “How else do you think Mycroft found us so quickly?”

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

John clamped his mouth shut, then opened it again. “I don’t believe it.” He paused. “But the gifts—that idea was all mine. And the decor.”

“Yes, well, I expect everything to return to normal tomorrow.”

“No Christmas bulbs?”

Sherlock shook his head.

John’s face fell. “But it will be Christmas.”

“The day after.”

“New Year’s. You can put things away then.”

“Done.”

John hesitated. “You do realize you just agreed to take down the decorations?”

“So I did.”

“Why?”

Sherlock began to walk away. “You’ll meet her by then.”

“Who?” John called out.

“Check your pocket.”  
  
John shoved his hands in his pockets. His right hand touched something. A paper. He pulled it out, unfolding it neatly.

Torn as if from a magazine, it read Mary’s Christmas Cake. And a name, scrawled in black ink on the side. Mary Ridley. And a date. December 31. And a time. 6 pm. And a place. Glassing’s Hall. And a reason. Blind date to gather intel for a case.

Blind date? Blind date?

Of all the infuriating—irritating—

“Sherlock!” he cried.

Fists clenched, he marched forward—only to stop.

Mrs. Hudson was embracing Sherlock, who—by golly—hugged her back, his cheeks flushed with color!

It was at such moments that for an instant Sherlock ceased to be a reasoning machine and betrayed his impersonal ways for human affection.

John’s jaw dropped. Then his shoulders. Finally, his hands, loose at his sides.

He laughed.

It was Christmas. He might as well make the most of it. Maybe a date, even one with a stranger, would be good for him. And if it would be helpful…these people mattered most.

‘‘Tis the season, Sherlock,” he murmured, and made his way to his friends.  
~fin~  
  
 _Merry Christmas! Happy holidays! We hope you enjoyed our little tale! There was at least one line or reference to The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle in each chapter. If you are a fan of the original Sherlock Holmes, I hope you caught them!_  
  



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